


The Rhythm is Gonna Get You

by stepquietly



Series: The Beat Poets AU [1]
Category: Hockey RPF, Real News RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Bad Poetry, Crack, Gen, I love you Bobby Lu, Sorry you got dragged into this Mooney, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For reasons that do not need exploring at this juncture, Harrison Mooney triple-dip double-dog dares Bobby Lu to a poetry slam. Because some of these reasons might include beer. And others might involve Lu’s willingness to sully the honor of Mooney’s new bongo drums. Well, either way, they’re up on stage now and that’s that.</p><p>(AKA The Beat Poets AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rhythm is Gonna Get You

**Author's Note:**

> There can be no explanation, only exposition. [](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thefourthvine/pseuds/thefourthvine)[](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thefourthvine/pseuds/thefourthvine)**thefourthvine** was my beta, there was no indecision. Only Gloria Estefan later, and collages that, once arisen, were deemed the glorious art. And this work's last dart.

Lu starts out strong. He knows how to play to the crowd, which is largely made up of the bar’s regulars, veterans of East Van's poetry scene. He puts his pipe down and stands up, pulls a black marker from his pocket. He draws a large circle on his stained shirt, right over his heart, and colors it in. He caps the pen and looks out over the crowd. “This is the poem itself. The Black Spot of Dunbar Street, the man you gotta beat. The jazz of the heart, never to part. The spot used to be on my face, but my wife withheld her embrace. Poetry’s more than a race to outpace the commonplace. It costs at least fifteen dollars at a bookstore and people call it art. Besides, darker marker gives my wife strife. And then the couch is where my night starts.”

There’s a lot of clapping, some enthused and some polite. Bobby thinks the poem is actually better since Gina read him the riot act. _Life creating poetry, poetry creating life_ , he thinks with satisfaction.

When the noise dies down, Bobby nods graciously at Mooney. The challenger. The interloper. The man in the moon. _Moonerman_. Mooney adjusts his beret, pulls his drums closer and starts out a steady two-beat tap on his bongos. “I came upon this scene with a dream to outdance the queen, blow the whistle on his train if you know what I mean. Do you? Do you know what I mean? ‘Cause if you don’t, I’ll feel like a real ween- ie.”

There’s some weak applause. “Yeah!” yells one guy from the back, “sell it!” The regulars haven’t even stopped talking about Lu’s last poem yet, let alone registered whatever Mooney just attempted there.

Lu holds his hand up for silence. He waits until the room quiets before he begins, “Some say that I look like Count Chocula, because I would be delicious with milk, a breakfast that soaks in a bath like Cleopatra. But I’m not, even if I’d be the gorgeous queen of the Egyptian scene, because what I am is an expatriate, a wanderer in a foreign land; a man who might be tanned but far from the sand. I’m not the queen of the Nile, or you’d already be banned.”

It’s a sick burn that gets the crowd on its feet. There’s at least one guy holding up a lighter, though that might also be something to do with trying to light a friend’s joint.

When it’s his turn, Mooney hesitates, largely because he can’t use the pun on denial without playing right into Lu’s hands. The crowd presses closer, sensing blood in the water.

“Fuck it,” he whispers, and folds his hands on top of his drums, lets his serious demeanour do the talking.

“You always taught me right from wrong,” Mooney intones, looking out into the crowd. “I need your help to keep me strong. I may be young but I know what I’m saying. And while my friends keep telling me – ”

“Hey, those are Madonna lyrics!” yells one guy.

““He’s speaking the language of the people, man,” a girl fires back. “He’s transforming the mundane into the transcendent! He’s repurposing the words without the capitalist jargon. He’s the anti-Madonna. Like, the Madonna of the people!”

The tone of the crowd changes, moves rapidly from its previous frosty silence to intrigue. The regulars eye Mooney with more regard now, clearly re-evaluating him.

“What? That he’s keeping the baby?” The guy shouts, but there’s less interest in him now.

Lu nods solemnly at Mooney, formally recognizing him as a worthy adversary. He tips his glasses further down his nose to make it clear that he’s here, he’s ready, he’s _deep_. Mooney does a little riff on his drums before he finger-guns back. It’s on.

When it’s his turn again, Lu pauses for a long minute and looks contemplative. He fiddles with his pipe and adjusts his beret, lost in thought.

It’s a while before he says, “When I first came upon the beat, everyone I happened to meet gave me a line to complete. Sometimes I felt like a phony, like I was playing a big macaroni, when in fact I was a noodle like ramen, which is salty like tears for my fears” – he gives Mooney a long look here – “or taxes in arrears. But I never hesitate because I’m great, like salsa on a plate, with tacos. Or sometimes enchiladas. Big enchiladas.”

The regulars are howling with joy, but Mooney doesn’t let that distract him. He’s in his element now. He grabs his drums and goes for a reggae beat. “Lu, I’m gonna make you sweat, sweat 'til you can’t sweat no more. And when you cry out, I’m going to push it some more. With a little bit of this and a little bit of that, the tongue goes on the attack.”

Lu’s eyes narrow.

“That sounded really homoerotic,” someone opines. “I thought both of them were married.”

“Sexuality is fluid. Man, this guy’s a fucking _artist_.”

Lu stands and takes off his beret. There’s an audible gasp from the back of the room.

He walks to the front of the stage and announces, “This is a poem about my daughter. It’s called ‘Pure Creation’.” And Lu opens his mouth and starts with a long quiet wail that turns into an angry scream that he abruptly cuts off. He holds up a finger to indicate that the poem’s not over, swallows a lot of air and then burps. He puts his hands on either side of his lips, blows out a long fart sound once. And then again, like a conch. He bows low.

The bar erupts into applause. There’s hollering and hooting, and more than one listener wipes at tears. Lu smiles graciously, puts his beret back on, and settles back into his chair.

The screaming that follows is a cacophony of contradictions.

“He can’t top that. Lu’s the king.”

“Give the guy a chance. Hey, hey man! Quote some Andrew Bird. That guy’s great!”

“He really ought to do some Dylan.”

“Shut up! Why do you even go here?”

Mooney looks across at Lu, his face set with some sort of inner resolution that maybe came over him between the scream and the burping. He seems to gird himself before he puts his bongos down and walks across the stage to stand over Bobby.

Mooney abruptly kneels and says, soft but carrying, “Some nights you breathe fire. And some nights you’re carved in ice. Some days you’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before, or will again.”

The bar is dead silent.

“I think that was –” a voice starts, but then falters. There’s a cough or two, before there’s a sudden awkward rush for the bar. It’s pretty clear that the night has abruptly been brought to an end.

Lu grins at Mooney, holds out his hand for Mooney to shake. “Thanks, man. You got some balls; that was not the song for this crowd.”

“It was the only thing strong enough to hold up after that last poem of yours.”

“Yeah. Gabi kinda wrote that one for me, but I figured ‘words of the people’ and all.” Lu snickers and tips his beret back.

“Hoist by my own petard,” Mooney mutters while pretending to be annoyed. He gives in and laughs along with Lu after a bit. “Come on, I’ll buy you a round and you can tell me more about how you write this stuff.”

Lu smiles like it is just that easy. “Sure, man. Lemme tell you about life.”


End file.
